


Touchstone

by KRyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, rinch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 18:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2239260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KRyn/pseuds/KRyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>It was September, and Finch was...off.</em><br/> </p>
<p> <br/> </p>
<p>A case that nearly has history repeating itself ends in conflict, setting the stage for unexpected revelations. </p>
<p>See notes for spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touchstone

***********************************************************

_...time was not passing...it was turning in a circle..._

***********************************************************

It was September, and Finch was...off.

It wasn't anything significant at first.

While they were working the few Numbers that came in early in the month, Harold was sharp and on task. 

His research was impeccable, his ability to slide through firewalls with ease intact, his fingers a blur dancing across the keyboards, his wardrobe as tailored as ever, his voice steady on the coms.

But by the end of the first week there was a heaviness to his normal, uneven step; a softer edge to his acerbic tone. 

Distraction set in during week two. Moments when Harold's gaze would go distant: a fractional lag in response time--like a computer running too many programs without enough memory; a restlessness which had him leaving his monitors and wandering the stacks, pausing occasionally to caress a random book spine, or fussily straighten a stack of periodicals.

The edginess made its debut at the beginning of the third week. Finch's paranoia was ramping up. He was more secretive than ever, his normal calm replaced by a twitchiness Reese had never seen in him. The sharpness had returned to Harold's sarcasm, wielding a cutting, hurtful edge. Not even Bear was spared his impatience. The confidence he had grown to have in Reese's abilities seemed to have disappeared; Finch was curt and argumentative, questioning every observation and decision John made. 

Reese wrote most of it off to lack of sleep and the uncertainties they were facing, but it was still wearing. The clock on the virus was ticking down. The Machine was worryingly erratic, spitting out only the occasional Number, and Finch was spending long hours in front of his monitors. Not that he was sharing what he was doing.

The Library, which had become a refuge and source of quiet companionship, was a place where John suddenly felt like an intruder. Unwanted and rebuffed. Pulling a book off a shelf earned him a horrified glare, the tome plucked from his fingers and replaced precisely. His teasing comment about 'desecrating the sacred shrine' had generated what could only be interpreted as a 'putting him in his place' dismissal: a frigid stare and a turned back.

It had been two days before he'd heard from Finch again. Forty-eight hours during which John had vacillated between concern and a growing resentment. He had thought they were long past the employer/employee relationship. It stung.

John had been relieved when The Machine had finally given them a Number, thinking the work might get them back on track. Marvin Jacobs was a fifty-year-old building inspector, employed by the City. His wife had died fourteen years earlier, in childbirth. He had raised his daughter alone, tragically losing her three months prior to suicide. The girl had overdosed, leaving a note explaining she couldn't deal with the shame. Finch's research had unearthed evidence of cyber-bullying. The girl had been caught in a tryst with another female friend, the video posted to her school's website. It had populated rapidly through other social media sites.

Reese had made the mistake of commenting that social media should never have been invented, sparking a hostile tirade from Finch. Technology wasn't the problem, the older man had argued stiffly. It was _people_ who couldn't be trusted to use it properly. John's own frustration had slipped past his control and he had made a caustic remark that people were the only thing _worth_ trusting before making his escape. 

The following days had been filled with brittle exchanges and sniping from both sides. The case was dragging on. The man Reese was shadowing was as commonplace as could be, the last few months since his daughter's death revealing nothing that defined him as perpetrator or victim. 

After the funeral, Jacobs had taken a six-week leave of absence, attending some group grief counseling sessions during that period. He had returned to work understandably more reserved, but no less dedicated to his job. A visit to his home revealed a neat, orderly household. No dirty dishes in the sink, no collection of empty liquor bottles or medications that might signal a spiraling depression due to grief. Credit card statements showed similar purchases and payments to those prior to his daughter's death. His finances overall were unremarkable: there was no indication of suspicious withdrawals or deposits. He hadn't applied for a gun permit, and nothing deadly was hidden in the late model Ford sedan Jacobs drove. His office provided his cell phone, and the call log showed he used it only for work.

The most dangerous element in his life was his job, and he performed the necessary tasks with competence. His work often took him into decrepit residences, but Jacobs exercised caution, following procedure. His daily route took him to several large construction sites, where he was responsible for checking material manifests and watching for code violations. 

Looking into the contractors and investors funding those projects had given them nothing to pursue either. Unethical business practices were common within the construction industry. Payoffs and substitution of inferior materials could save a developer millions of dollars. Reese had theorized that Jacobs had stumbled onto a scam and that those running it might be planning to eliminate him to cover up their activities. Finch's research had come up with nothing to support the idea; there were minor issues, but outside of those, everyone involved appeared to be above board. 

The suggestion that John sit down and meet with Jacobs directly resulted in a lecture from Finch about the need to remain unobserved, a reminder of the danger of their enterprise, and a scathing observation regarding Reese's lack of caution. John's equally heated remark that The Machine was obviously malfunctioning, if Jacobs was the most critical case it could come up with, was met with silence over the line, followed by a sharp click in his ear as Harold hung up on him. 

Day three of his surveillance was a beautiful fall morning, the sky a pale blue, the air crisp. Reese was oblivious to its charms. Days of sitting on his ass, following their Number from point to point, had given Reese too much time to think, frustration with the case and Finch's behavior raising his own irritability to a dangerous level. He sat slumped behind the wheel of his car outside Jacobs' first stop--a huge high-rise apartment complex only days away from occupancy--fuming. At seven-fifteen in the morning, the site was busy, workers finishing cleanup tasks, panel vans and larger trucks laden with unused materials and debris exiting the area in a steady stream. 

His response to an incoming call from Finch was a disgruntled, "Yeah." 

_"Mr. Reese. I've made a mistake. We need to find Mr. Jacobs and stop him immediately."_

Finch sounded frantic. Reese sat up abruptly, and slid out from behind the wheel, scanning the area. Jacobs had parked near the entrance and disappeared around the side of the building an hour earlier. 

"What's wrong?" John asked, moving quickly to trace Jacobs' path. 

_"I didn't see it...didn't make the connection."_

John paused in the shadow of the building, eyeing the construction trailer where Jacobs typically did his paperwork on site. "What connection?" There was no sign of his target. 

_"There's an assembly at his daughter's old school today. This morning. Eight o'clock. Parents and students were all required to attend. It's a lecture on cyber-bullying."_

Reese cut across to the trailer and peered inside. Empty. "Well, Jacobs isn't attending. He's here...somewhere."

_"Where?"_

"Skyrise Apartments. Probably doing his final checks."

_"He signed off on that project yesterday, Mr. Reese. He has no legitimate business there."_

Reese frowned and scanned the area again. At the rear of the property he saw two men wearing hard hats, in the midst of what looked like a serious argument. One of the men held a clipboard in his hand and was gesturing angrily toward a temporary shed. John headed toward them, the sound of Finch's rapid breathing in his ear, hard strikes of fingertips against a keyboard a distracting counterpoint.

_"The records don't match. Jacobs must have been altering them all along."_

"Records?" 

_"The construction manifests, specifically the amount of explosives and number of detonators used and stored. The records Jacobs submitted with his final report don't match those the construction foreman delivered an hour ago. The foreman's final inventory is significantly lower."_

Reese's step faltered. The shed bore warning signs, indicating that it had been used to store demolition materials. 

_"I thought he was done grieving. There were no signs. No evidence. But there's only one reason he would have falsified those records."_

"Jacobs stole the explosives. He's going to attack the school. Take out those he holds responsible for his daughter's death."

_"I fear so. His background shows no training in the handling of explosive materials, but his years of working closely with those who do--"_

"Means he could have learned just enough to pull it off," John finished grimly. "Finch, how many people are we talking about at that assembly?" 

_"School enrollment is 734. Even one parent per child would put the total at risk at nearly 1500, including faculty and staff."_

Reese pulled Detective Stills' badge from an inner pocket and closed the distance to the two men. "Marvin Jacobs. Where is he?"

The man with the clipboard scowled at the badge that had been thrust in his face. "Don't know. I've got bigger problems to worry about."

"I saw Jacobs fifteen minutes ago." John turned toward the second man. "He was climbing into one of the trucks we rented to haul away construction debris. He drove off before I could stop him."

"Why the hell didn't you say something?" the man with the clipboard snarled. 

"What kind of truck?" Reese pressed. 

"I don't know, I--" 

"Ford box truck, white. Plate number is..." the first man said tersely, flipping through the papers on his clipboard. "XJ6772." His face was dead white, his eyes wide. "You need to find that truck, Detective. We're missing explosives. A lot of explosives."

Finch's voice was loud in John's ear. _"I'm checking the city's traffic camera feeds between there and the school."_

"Close down the site," Reese ordered the two men. "Don't let anything else in or out." He spun and ran back to his car. "I need the fastest route to that school, Finch."

_"Sending it to you now. Detective Carter's phone is going to voice mail. Detective Fusco's aware of the situation and will put an APB out on the truck. He's heading toward the school, but he's going to be at least fifteen minutes behind you. I routed a bomb threat through NYPD communications, however there may not be time to clear the building."_

"We need to head him off," Reese growled, as he yanked his car door open. The GPS on his phone was flashing coordinates and directions as he cranked the sedan to life and squealed out into traffic. "Have you got eyes on the truck yet?"

_"Working on it."_

"Work faster, Finch," Reese rasped. "Once you find it, see if there's anything you can do to slow him down."

_"Mr. Reese--"_

John ignored the protest. "Get into the traffic control systems. We know where he's headed. Rig a delay the on the stoplights, create a fake detour. I don't care. Just buy me some time."

 

**********************************************************************************

_When someone tells you to be careful, it is not because you're careless,  
but because you are too important to them._

**********************************************************************************

Harold's fingers flew across the keyboard, eyes darting from one opening window to the next. Rapid-fire chatter from the police scanner provided a play-by-play of the school's evacuation. It would be close, but it looked like they had taken the bomb threat seriously and moved quickly. First responders were starting to arrive on the scene. 

Flipping from one traffic camera to another so fast that the feeds blurred before his eyes, he finally found the truck. It was cruising at a steady speed through an industrial area filled with warehouses. Only a few miles, and minutes, stood between Jacobs and the residential area that surrounded the school. 

Feverishly searching for any way to fill John's demand for more time, he scanned ahead on the truck's projected path. Stop signs, but no stoplights. A rail crossing--

He sliced his way into the railroad control center without a thought to covering his tracks. In seconds he had taken over the crossing signals, lowering the barricades at that intersection. Jacobs would have to turn either left or right. It would give Reese a few of the minutes he'd wanted, but maybe there was more he could do. 

Harold studied the satellite map of the area, focusing on the rail line. There were sidings near many of the warehouses for ease of loading and unloading freight cars. One of those short rail sections cut across the road Jacobs would be on if he turned right at the closed crossing. Harold tapped into camera feeds from a business on that stretch. On that section of siding sat two flatcars. 

If he could block that road, Jacobs would have to backtrack. The only remaining route would head him into a contained area of parking lots, which at the moment were mostly empty. 

Harold dove back into the rail line's control center again, digging for the identification transponders on the cars. The railroad cars were old, with nothing electronic he could affect remotely. But the siding they were on was new, equipped with electronic braking tabs within the rails, designed to keep the parked rail cars in place. If he could disengage them, the cars might roll far enough to obstruct the intersection, assuming the siding was properly engineered with a downhill slope. 

_"Finch."_ Reese's impatience and worry was obvious. 

"I've blocked the rail crossing on Delmont," Harold answered, hacking into the rail line's functional controls. "I might be able to divert him north on the cross street."

_"Might?"_

"Assuming Newton's Second Law holds true," Harold muttered, stabbing at the keyboard. "This is a bit more complicated than nudging a tinker toy."

_"We can't let him reach the school, Finch."_

Harold winced at the sudden blast of chatter from the police band. "NYPD is blocking off all roads within three blocks of it. Bomb squad is nearly there."

_"Evacuation?"_

"Proceeding." Harold triggered the code to release the braking tabs, holding his breath as he watched the rail cars lurch slightly as the wheels were freed. For the space of nearly a full minute he waited for some sign, ready to redirect Reese one way or another. Then slowly, gravity took hold and the flatcars began to move, inching down the rails toward the intersection. 

A white truck entered the frame of the surveillance feed on the first rail crossing, brake lights flaring red. 

"Jacobs is hung up at Delmont," he told Reese. "Backing up...turning...right."

_"Will he get through?"_

Harold stared at the monitor, eyes glued to the rail cars' painfully slow progress. "I don't know..." 

_"Finch!"_ Reese snarled.

"I've done everything I can. I don't want those explosives to go off any more than you do!" Harold hissed back, heartsick. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the date stamp on the feed, the time ticking closer to 8:00 AM. 'Not again, not again,' he mouthed silently. 'Please, not today.'

The white truck passed the camera, heading for the second crossing, the rail cars were still moving...

Brake lights lit. 

"He's stopped," Harold gasped. "He'll have to turn around." He glanced at the screen tracking Reese's car. "You're only a few blocks behind him. If you let him get ahead of you on the cross street, you'll be able to box him in when he gets into the parking area."

Harold turned his attention to locating cameras that would give him a view of the parking lots. There were only four, and all offered a view from only one direction, looking north. At the far end of the asphalt surface, a long line of waist-high concrete barriers prevented any exit from that end. Other shorter sets of similar barriers were set in diagonal rows in various parts of the lot, designating parking areas for semi-trailers and their cabs. 

_"I just picked him up,"_ Reese reported a minute later. _"You're sure there's no way he can get out of there without going past me?"_

"Yes." Harold slumped back in his chair. "If you can just contain him for a few--"

_"I'm not interested in containing this guy, Finch."_

Harold sat bolt upright, barely stifling a gasp at the flare of pain up his spine. "Mr. Reese--"

_"Kids, Finch. He was going to destroy a school full of kids."_

On the monitor Harold could see the white truck enter the parking area, heading directly toward the north end. 

"I understand, but we've stopped him from achieving that," he argued, furiously typing a text to Fusco with the new coordinates. "Detective Fusco is on his way. Wait for him."

_"You know I'm not one to wait for backup, Finch."_

Reese's sedan appeared on one of the camera feeds, coming to a hard stop. At the far end of the lot, the truck was turning, heading back toward John. 

"Mr. Reese--"

_"He gets off on an insanity plea and he'll try this again. He needs to be stopped."_

Harold watched in horror as John's car started moving forward, engaging Jacobs in a deadly game of chicken.

"What are you--?"

Words failed him as the two vehicles closed the distance. At the last minute, the truck swerved left, crashing into one of the shorter concrete barriers. Wide-eyed, Harold held his breath, shocked that the vehicle hadn't exploded on impact, painfully aware of John's sedan halting just a few feet away from the back end of the truck, Reese climbing out of the car, the clock ticking down...

"John don't!"

But his plea went unanswered. Gun drawn, Reese headed toward the driver's side of the truck, disappearing from view. 

The world erupted in a nova of flame and searing white light as the clock hit 8:00 AM. 

 

**************************************************************************************************************

_We have placed our hearts into the hands of those closest to us, with the trust of its safekeeping.  
Those careless with its handling can cause the deepest pain._

**************************************************************************************************************

It was early evening before Reese made it to the Library, sufficient time for every ache and pain and bruise he'd acquired that morning to make their presence known. Despite a hot shower, a nap he hadn't intended on taking, and a fresh change of clothes, he felt wasted. 

A glimmer of guilt nagged at him for being out of touch for so many hours, but it was offset by his reluctance to do battle with his partner. Finch would certainly have something to say about the risks he'd taken today, and his intention to stop Jacobs permanently. John wasn't particularly comfortable with that latter decision either. Rage had driven him, and he had let it take control. 

As he walked past the upper gate, Bear came bounding to meet him. Reese dropped to one knee and guided the dog to the floor, trying to protect his left shoulder. He had wrenched and bruised it badly, catching the edge of the concrete barrier when he'd thrown himself over it to escape the explosion. The Malinois was a handful; exuberant energy combined with edgy volatility. John eased the dog, smoothing his hand over the bristling hair on his spine. After a few minutes, Bear settled enough that Reese rose to his feet, giving the dog a soft command to return to his bed. 

He trailed after him into the workroom. Finch was in his chair at the desk. All of the monitors were dark. 

"Did you lose your phone, Mr. Reese?" 

The cold, flat greeting was like a slap in the face. John's irritation with his partner's attitude flared.

"No." He slid the broken phone onto the table. "I landed on it." 

He walked behind Finch and retrieved a new phone and earpiece from the cabinet next to the card catalogue. When there was no rejoinder, sarcastic or otherwise, he glanced over at his partner.

Harold's hands were motionless on the table in front of the keyboard. His face could have been carved in stone.

"Some form of communication would have been appreciated."

John frowned. "Fusco was supposed to call you." 

"Detective Fusco is not my employee, Mr. Reese." 

John stiffened, irritation shifting to slow simmering anger. 

"Detective Carter did call to express her displeasure at once again having to clean up one of our 'messes'," Finch added flatly. 

"Carter should be thankful we intervened," John growled. 

"She would have preferred a live detainee."

"Jacobs wasn't going to stop."

"So _you_ stopped him. It was unnecessary. He was contained--"

"I couldn't take chance."

Harold's hands flattened on the tabletop. Suddenly he shoved to his feet, the desk chair skating backward.

"You risked everything! We _save_ people, we don't--

"Jacobs wasn't a victim, Finch. He was planning mass murder. Have you forgotten that?"

"He had lost the most important thing in his life. He was a grief stricken man. He needed help...counseling."

John's anger was past simmer and headed toward boiling.

"His own bomb killed him, Finch. Not me."

"So justice is served? Our hands are cleansed by fire? Why today, of all days, did you have to--”?

"Do what you _pay_ me to do?" 

He felt a sense of satisfaction at the older man's flinch. Finch rallied quickly, however. 

"We have to be careful! We can't afford to be exposed."

"Is that what this is really about?" Reese snapped. "Keeping your precious secrets?"

"The Machine isn't the only entity watching. Explosions have a way of drawing attention. Exercising a bit of caution does not seem like too much to ask." 

"I make the decisions in the field, Finch." 

"Decisions that have consequences." 

Stiff-legged limp and rigid spine expressing his anger, Finch turned his back on him and marched to the glass board. With hard jerks he started tearing off their Number's information. 

"Are you trying to handle me, Finch?" It came out soft, and dangerous. 

"I doubt that's possible, Mr. Reese," came the icy reply.

Reese reached his limit. 

"You don't like the way I work, maybe you should find someone else."

Finch didn't even bother to look at him. "Perhaps I should." 

 

***************************************************************************

_The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching  
their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly._

***************************************************************************

The silence between them crackled. Harold stood staring at the glass board. Those words had tumbled out of his mouth and now he had no way to take them back. It was ironic really, because they contained so much truth. He _should_ find someone else. 

Someone he didn't love. 

Someone it wouldn't kill him to lose.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw John turn and stalk away into the stacks. Over his own pounding pulse, Harold could hear the thud of books hitting the floor, a drawer opened and slammed shut, the clank of metal against metal muffled by cloth. 

He didn't...couldn't...move. 

The fast tread of leather against wood announced Reese's re-entry into the workroom. John didn't stop or even slow down as he headed to the exit. He was nearly at the gate...

"Mr. Reese." 

Harold's voice seemed faint and dead to his own ears, but it stopped John in his tracks. Harold stared straight ahead; Reese's rigid back in view just at the edge of his peripheral vision. Harold's mouth was so dry he didn't know how he could possibly form the words. Somehow he managed.

"Please take Bear this evening. I have an early appointment in the morning." 

Reese whistled, a sound as harsh and sharp as a whip cutting the air. Bear scrambled to his side. John strode forward, snagging the dog's leash from the coat rack as he passed. He shouldered the gate aside and stormed out. 

Harold traced their departure by sound: heavy steps thundering down the stairs, Bear's nails clicking and scrabbling on the ancient, pitted marble flooring, the slam of a door.

He remained where he was, his vision filled with explosions. 

There was no air in the room. 

John had taken it all with him.

****************************************************

_There are things you can't walk away from.  
Not if you want to live with yourself afterward._

****************************************************

Reese strode angrily down the street, black 'go-bag' clenched in one hand, barely aware of Bear trotting at this side. The Malinois' head swiveled left and right, searching for danger in response to the jumble of emotions his master was sending down the taut leather leash. 

John was grimly content to let the dog watch for trouble. His only goal was to put as much distance as he could between himself and the Library.

And his pain in the ass...what? Partner? Friend?

No. Employer. Finch had made _that_ perfectly clear. 

The man was a menace. A paranoid rich man with no clue about how the world really worked, but with an itch to control it and everyone around him, just like Reese had first thought. 

He had no field training. He thought he could sit behind his monitors and play God.

Anger shut down thought processes and fueled John's steps for a few more miles, shepherding him away from the bright lights and into a darker part of town, which matched his mood perfectly.

Reese hefted his bag, easing his cramping fingers. The movement sent a jolting ache through his sorely bruised shoulder, further enflaming his seething emotions. 

Finch thought someone else could do better? 

Fine. Let him find someone that would put up with the craziness. 

He and his all-seeing Machine could find another sucker to leech dry. 

Bear suddenly growled and nearly lunged at a man Reese shouldered past, snapping John back into an awareness of his surroundings and the effect he was having on the dog. He guided Bear to the side of the walkway, and ran his hand gently over the Malinois' head. Bear whined and shouldered into him, his confusion evident. The dog didn't understand what was happening any more than he did. Reese let his bag drop to the pavement and knelt down next to him, murmuring quiet nonsense, easing the dog off of high alert, trying to curb his own fury and hurt, and failing miserably. 

Damn it! It would be so easy to love the man. If John had the guts to admit it to himself, he already did. 

But Finch was impossible. Secretive. Manipulative. So hell-bent on his quixotic crusade. 

Two years, and John still didn't know where the man went to roost at night. Still didn't know something as simple as his favorite color. 

But he knew that cold, distant look that Finch excelled at, all too well. The man had made barrier-raising an art form.

The clamor of noise and loud voices drew Reese's attention up the street where a garish neon sign announced the presence of strong drink and no questions. 

A whiskey sounded good. Maybe a whole bottle. 

He probably didn't have a job to go to in the morning anyway. 

That thought should have sobered him. Instead it generated a fresh wave of hurt pride and pain he refused to give a name to. With a terse command to Bear to 'heel', he grabbed his bag and stalked toward the bar. Stiff-arming the door, he turned a glare on the nearest bartender who looked like he was going to complain about Bear's presence. A smug, nasty grin creased his face when the man immediately backed down. 

A few minutes later, he was seated at the darkest end of the bar, Bear at his feet, downing the first glass of cheap whiskey, half-enjoying, half-grimacing at the burn.

Hours later, when he was feeling less pain and had forgotten what number drink he was on, his phone buzzed with an incoming call from Fusco. 

He glared at the cell, irritation peaking again. 

************************************************************************

_Alone._

_It's one of those small words that means entirely too much._  
 _Like fear._

_Or trust._

************************************************************************

It was like moving through quicksand; his bones shifting, mind tumbling as the world spun slowly, inexorably onward, nudging Harold into a slow circuit of the Library's workroom. 

Every caustic word, every snide comment that had emerged from his lips over the last few weeks echoed in his head, reminding him had earned John's anger. He had only himself to blame. He should have trusted. Should have explained. But explanations would have exacted their own cost; revealed secrets kept close. Changed things. 

With each page torn from the calendar, the memories had been increasingly impossible to ignore. Fear had sealed his lips against the truth, caused him to revert to old patterns. Instead of sharing, he had pulled back into his shell, alone in his desperation. 

Cowardice was once again going to cost him everything. 

He came to a stop in front of the boards that held the evidence of his failures. With the whispers of ghosts in his ears he studied each picture, each clipping and post-it note; paying homage to their lives, fingers tracing the red strings denoting their untimely endings. 

There was no matching display of success. He kept little record of the lives saved, eliminating any trace of those Numbers in case the Library was ever compromised. But on this day of days, he wished he had some tangible proof to warm the desolation inside of him. 

When his wanderings brought him back to the round table that held his computers, Harold dropped weakly into his chair, legs unsteady, pain ratcheting up his spine. He started to reach for the mouse automatically, but pulled his hand back before he touched it. There were no answers to pull from the ether. The dark screens were more comforting than what they held. 

_"You risked everything."_ That was the accusation he'd thrown at John. And it was accurate. Reese _was_ everything. Of course John had interpreted it as Harold being paranoid, protecting his secrets. 

If only he knew. 

Harold huffed a sharp, humorless laugh. It wasn't the first time his intentions had been misunderstood, his inability to trust thrown in his face. It was fitting, he supposed, that the accusation had come once again from someone whose words could pierce so deeply. 

He pressed the heel of one hand hard against his chest. The pain inside was sharp, tearing; nearly as bad as it had been for twenty minutes earlier that day. It would fade; settle to an ache he would learn to live with, just as he had learned to live with another loss he had borne for years. 

But he wasn't strong enough to carry both. 

It was time. 

He pushed himself to his feet and wound his way through the shadowed stacks until he reached the History section. Retrieving a dusty bottle of Macallan whiskey from behind a row of books, he brought it back to the round workroom table, setting it down to the left of his keyboard. From a file cabinet drawer he extracted two matching crystal highball glasses, placing them next to the bottle. 

He poured a generous helping of the liquor into each glass. Picking up one of the glasses, he stared down into its depths, the amber liquid reflecting the lights of the workroom, glowing with false warmth. 

He was so cold.

"No more lies," he murmured, throat tight. 

Leaning forward, he clinked his glass against the one on the table, the soft chime of contact sending a shiver down his spine. He took a breath, and then downed the contents of his portion in one long swallow. 

The forty-year-old whiskey burned all the way down.

It did nothing to warm him.

He set his empty glass down next to its partner, turned, and limped over to one of the tall file cabinets near the window. 

Hand on the drawer pull, he hesitated. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then resolutely opened the drawer and extracted a large, thick envelope. Without further delay, he crossed back to the table and propped the envelope up behind the keyboard, so it rested against the center monitor. 

He stood there until the pressing silence was too great to bear. He crossed to the coat rack, lifting his overcoat from the hook with slightly trembling fingers, settling it into place with an awkward shrug of his shoulders. 

He turned off the lights and limped past the upper gate. He turned and tugged it closed, staring down the short corridor. His silent computers were merely rectangular blobs amongst the other shadows. With a soft sigh, he locked the gate. Footsteps echoing, he traversed the steps in the dark, allowing memories to pull him forward. 

He let the door swing shut behind him as he stepped out into the tunnel, the lock's tumbler's latching into place, thudding like the first clods of dirt thrown on a coffin. 

 

******************************************************************************************

_Listening is the most dangerous thing of all, listening means knowing,_  
 _finding out about something and knowing what’s going on,_  
 _our ears don’t have lids that can instinctively close against the words uttered,_  
t _hey can’t hide from what they sense they’re about to hear, it’s always too late._

******************************************************************************************

John put all the disdain he could muster into his greeting to Fusco. "What?"

_"Well, hello to you, too, Sunshine."_

"What do you want, Lionel?"

_"I was trying to reach our four-eyed friend."_

"He's not here." 

Reese stabbed at his cell, terminating the call. He raised his empty glass to signal for a refill. His phone buzzed, vibrating on the scarred surface of the bar. He ignored it. After the bartender had filled his glass, he gestured for the man to leave the bottle. His phone buzzed again. He tossed down half the drink, eyed his cell, and considered flinging it across the room. 

It buzzed again. Fusco was a persistent prick.

He pulled his earpiece out of his pocket, slid it into place and tapped it to pick up the call. 

"You're forgetting our arrangement, Lionel," he rasped, anger pitching his voice into its most menacing register. "I call you. Not the other way around."

_"Yeah, well, I wouldn't be calling you if 'Glasses' was answering his phone."_

A tendril of worry tried to take root. Reese burned it out with another swallow of whiskey. 

"Maybe he just can't be bothered. Human interaction isn't his forte."

_"What?"_

"He's a very private person, Lionel. He doesn't tell me his business. He's the boss. I'm just the employee."

_"Whoa. Sounds like there's trouble in paradise. Couples fight, but yours must have been a doozy."_

Reese snarled something incomprehensible. 

_"All right, all right...I don't know what the deal is with you two. Maybe the moon's in the wrong phase. Look, have you talked to him?"_

"He doesn't talk. He orders. He manipulates." Reese barked a harsh laugh. "All for the greater good. Or so he'd have you believe."

John took another long swig from his glass and refilled it. At his feet, Bear whined and shifted uneasily.

_"Are we talking about the same guy?"_ Fusco sounded genuinely bewildered.

"Secretive, uncaring, billionaire geek?" 

There was silence on the line long enough that Reese thought maybe he had succeeded in pissing Fusco off, and that he'd hang up and leave him alone. The detective's soft voice when he finally spoke penetrated the haze of the alcohol as nothing else he had said. 

_"Maybe three out of four of those fit, but from what I've seen, the man cares too much."_

John laughed again, this one underscored with bitterness. "He has a strange way of showing it."

_"Yeah, I'll give you that. Guess it's pretty commonplace to risk your life for someone. Cops do it all the time. Course we get paid for it. Not that he needs the money. How many times has he put himself on the line for you again? Four, five?"_

The liquor rolled uneasily in John's gut. "He was just protecting an investment," he murmured, twirling his glass, images flickering in its depths, memories...

_...a parking garage, a surprisingly solid unwavering form keeping him upright, a frantic car ride, a bag of money spilled on a gurney; a rooftop, a bomb vest, timer ticking down, steady hands; cool fingers nimbly stitching a wound; a presence at his bedside warding off fever dreams, a calm voice in his ear directing him toward an exit in the midst of gunfire; a job, a purpose, an apartment--no, a home..._

Fusco's count was way off. 

Still... 

>   
> _"You don't like the way I work, maybe you should find someone else."_
> 
> _"Perhaps I should."_

Reese tossed back the drink. "I've returned the favor."

_"So you're even? All debts are paid?"_

"What do you want, Lionel? Blood? I've spilled my share for today."

_"I'm sure that's part of the reason he was yelling in my ear earlier."_

Reese thought about Harold's cold, detached demeanor when he'd arrived at the Library. Nope. Not buying it. 

"Finch doesn't yell. It wouldn't be...civilized."

_"You scared him out of his ever-loving tailored mind,"_ Fusco said firmly. _"I was on the phone with him right after the truck blew. He couldn't see what was going on. He thought you were dead."_

Reese set the glass down hard. "He always has access to--"

" _He tapped into four cameras and couldn't see you on any of them. And he couldn't reach you by phone."_

"I dove behind the concrete barrier right before the bomb went off," John protested. 

_"All he saw was you heading around the truck right before the explosion. The heat-flash fried two of the cameras. From where he was sitting, you went up with it."_

John closed his eyes, shook his head slowly. He had damaged his phone when he'd landed. At about the same time the bomb had exploded. Cutting them off abruptly. No wonder Finch had thought--

"How long before he knew the truth?"

_"Roughly twenty minutes."_

Damn. They had been out of contact longer than that on other cases. Finch had always sounded irked, but relieved when they reconnected. Unlike the greeting he had gotten today. Of course today's situation had been exacerbated by apparently incontrovertible video evidence of his demise. 

Without a working phone or car, he had waited behind the concrete barrier for the heat of the fire engulfing the truck and his sedan to die down, and for Fusco to make it to the scene. Lionel had arrived in a screech of braking tires, looking frantic until the detective had spotted him. Carter had slid in moments behind him, irked that she was left to pick up the pieces. John had barely had time to give them a head's up to the identity of anything that remained of their Number, and ask Fusco to call Finch, before he'd had to make a quick exit to avoid the rest of the first responders. He had seen Lionel on his phone as he'd slipped away. 

He had taken the coward's way out and let Fusco deal with his partner. He hadn't trusted himself not to say something he would regret. Yet that had happened anyway, his delayed arrival at the Library making everything worse.

The image of Harold standing rigidly before the glass board filled his mind. Reese shoved the glass and whiskey bottle aside. "You said Finch wasn't answering his phone?" He gestured to the bartender and pointed to a rack of coffee mugs behind the bar, nodded when the man lifted the full pot to pour one for him.

_"It's going straight to voicemail."_

"When did you talk to him last?" 

_"Right after you left the scene."_

John checked his watch; surprised to see it was nearly midnight. He took a gulp of the coffee, nearly spitting out the scalding hot liquid. He swallowed instead, the bitter brew blazing a fresh trail of heat into his unsettled stomach, the hit of caffeine giving him a buzz to counter the haze of the alcohol in his system. 

"Why are you trying to reach him? Is there some problem with the case?"

_"Nah. There was an email waiting by the time I got back to the precinct with all the details we needed. I was working through the paperwork when I realized why he was probably so bent out of shape about today."_

Reese took another long swig of coffee. "What are you talking about?"

_"The date. September 26."_

Finch's words from earlier... _"Today of all days..."_

Something nudged at John's mind, half alarm, half recognition, but he couldn't quite capture it. He growled in irritation. "Lionel."

_"I can tell you're not a native New Yorker. Today's the anniversary of the Libertas Ferry bombing."_

Reese stilled, the mug of coffee clenched in a white-knuckled grasp, fragments of clues neatly slotting into place as Fusco kept talking.

_"Remember when you had me digging into our friend's background?"_

Finch's increasingly odd behavior over the course of the month...

_"That buddy of his from MIT..."_

Nathan Ingram. Finch's partner at IFT, the one he had built The Machine with...

_"...he was one of the casualties. Got caught in the explosion along with a couple hundred other people." ___

Finch's injuries. Reese had always suspected something more than a simple accident... 

_"He died three years ago today."_

__The same day Harold had probably walked--limped--crawled away from everything..._ _

__And today, on the anniversary of Ingram's death in a fiery explosion, he had spent at least twenty minutes certain Reese had died that way too._ _

__Shit._ _

__Bear shifted to his feet and leaned into John's leg, panting, picking up on his master's sudden burst of anxiety._ _

__Their argument. The threat to cut ties. Finch asking him to take Bear._ _

__Grief made people do crazy, irrational things. John knew that better than anyone. History had come close to repeating itself today, disaster taking them nearly full circle. Had it pushed Finch too far? Would Harold close the loop with another disappearing act?_ _

__Not on John's watch._ _

__Reese drained the rest of the coffee in one gulp; tossed a handful of bills on the bar and headed toward the door, Bear on his heels. "Lionel. I need you to meet me."_ _

__

******************************************************************************************** 

_I get up and pace the room, as if I can leave my guilt behind me.  
But it tracks me as I walk, an ugly shadow made by myself._

******************************************************************************************* 

The IFT Tower still looked magnificent, shining in the floodlights. 

Harold settled heavily onto a bench across the street and let his gaze follow the long clean lines of the building upward, past the floor where he had hidden in plain sight as an insignificant software developer, to the top floor where Nathan's office had been. 

In the early days, that office had been bare bones. All their capital, what there was of it, paid a rent they could barely afford, funded Harold's R &D, and bought the services of some good patent attorneys. They had been so young, filled with visions of how they would change the world. 

Harold closed his eyes against the ache in his heart.

Those had been crazy days, the two of them doing what they each did best: Nathan schmoozing investors, selling innovative concepts to people who barely knew how to turn on their own computers; Harold coding until his vision blurred, and his wrists and fingers were stiff. Sitting on the floor of Nathan's office they had toasted each success with cheap whiskey; running theories and ideas past one another until the sun's first rays crested the horizon.

Harold had never been happier; his ghosts and fears never quieter. 

After they had made their first million, Nathan's stomping grounds had taken on the trappings of wealth and power, suitable for the head of a rapidly growing company. Harold had been content with his own small office near the main servers, a little sanctuary where he could close the doors, turn off his phone and build mountains of code. Nathan had never argued his choice of space or lack of title in their enterprise, understanding as he always had that Harold much preferred, and needed, anonymity. The late night meetings in Nathan office had continued, but not with as much frequency, and of shorter duration. 

Nathan had married. 

Harold had attended the wedding, as a guest, seated as far from the front as he had been able to manage. Nathan had wanted him to be his best man, but Harold had declined, citing his preference to remain out of the spotlight. The truth, that Harold's heart was breaking, would have been a poorer choice, and might have cracked the foundation of not only their partnership, but also their friendship--a price Harold had not been prepared to pay. 

Olivia had been Nathan's choice. 

When their assets had reached the billions, the furnishings in Nathan's office hadn't changed much, but the liquor was smooth and their suits were expensive. Nathan's marriage had been troubled, but the birth of a son had diminished the turbulence. To his unending delight--and terror--Harold had become an unofficial 'uncle', an honor he had cherished as much for the wonder of watching Will grow up, as for the additional connection it gave him to Nathan. Their partnership had been strong, their friendship solid, the business thriving. 

If Harold had dreamed of more, he had kept it to himself. 

And then two planes had leveled the World Trade Center, changing the skyline of New York City, and the future, forever. 

Harold's gaze shifted one level lower, to the floor that didn't officially exist--the one where he had built The Machine. 

Life was made up of moments and choices. He had known, when he had typed the first lines of code, that he was taking the first step on a path that would set the course for his entire life. If The Machine could do what he envisioned, not only would the government be leery of letting anyone who knew about it run free, but also the reaction of the public to the invasion of privacy it entailed would result in a witch-hunt if its existence ever leaked out. Creating The Machine in secret had fit with his preference, and need, to stay off everyone's radar. 

That decision had placed Nathan in the target sights instead, a position he accepted without qualm, and with perhaps a bit of mischievous pleasure. He had played the front man with aplomb, enjoying the verbal fencing with the government agents, smoothly buying time for Harold to work his magic. He had guarded Harold and his secrets as he always had, never offering even a hint that there was an 'eighth' man who knew more about the project than anyone else. 

When The Machine had begun to exhibit worrisome signs of leapfrogging past his programming, Harold had recognized the potential danger. How to keep it under control was a question that had caused many sleepless nights. So many times, he had been tempted to destroy it--wipe the servers, remove any trace. But the world had needed something--something to save everyone--so he had kept at it, building in as many safeguards as he could. As a black box, it was contained. It would gather data, make the analysis he had programmed it to do, and then spit out a number. The investigation and burden of action would be in the hands of human beings. 

Denton Weeks' attempts to hack The Machine before it was even finished had made Harold question not only the choice to build it, but also to consider whether he had put too much temptation in the path of the people they would be handing it over to. He had strengthened the system's security, added self-protection protocols; determined that before they shipped it, that there would be no crack anyone could worm through. Not even him. 

He hadn't counted on Nathan's obsession with the Irrelevant List. It had changed everything. 

When they had finally released the servers to the government, Harold hadn't even attempted to learn where they intended to install it. By that time, his relationship with Nathan had become strained; their partnership and friendship a pale echo of what it had been. With The Machine gone, Harold had tried to repair the damage, offering ideas that he had hoped would entice Nathan to begin a new adventure with him. When Nathan had seemed unwilling to join him, he finally accepted that what he had hoped for would never be. 

Once again, Nathan had made his choice. 

He had tried to move on to other things, to start a new life with Grace. He had intentionally tried to step off the path. 

A part of him had known though, that he would not be allowed to wander far. 

His world had balanced on choices made, and secrets kept. 

And it had toppled in an explosive burst of destruction and fire. 

Just like it had nearly toppled again, today. 

Harold pushed himself to his feet and turned to walk away. 

He still had other respects to pay before morning. 

***************************************************************************** 

_There are things we keep hidden from one another._  
 _Things we hide from ourselves._  
 _Things that are kept hidden from us._  
 _And things no one knows._  
 _You always learn the damnedest things at the worst possible times._

*****************************************************************************

Reese handed Bear off to Fusco two blocks from the Library and ran the rest of the way, the worry that he was too late to stop his partner from doing something drastic clearing his head faster than the coffee he had guzzled, or the air he was gulping in. 

He slipped through the tunnel, fumbling for his key. The lock opened as smoothly as ever. He stepped inside, the musty smell of decaying books from the first floor emanating from the darkness. Instincts urged John upward, but he paused, listening intently. 

The old building normally made it's own music of creaks and groans, Finch's tapping on the keyboard a staccato accompaniment. Now it was eerily silent except for the faint throbbing of the generator in standby mode. 

He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, its narrow blue-white beam cutting through the dark, lighting his way upward. The lack of light and sound from the upper level killed any hope that Finch was still in the building. The locked gate leading into the workroom confirmed it. 

The screech of metal against metal as he unlocked and pushed the gate aside grated on his jangling nerves. Padding forward, he directed the beam of the flashlight into the dark canyons of the stacks, then back toward the round table. The main work area was lit with a faint pale light, the ever-present glow of New York City filtering in through the heavy plastic sheeting covering the windows. Something glinted with prismatic brilliance near the keyboard. 

The dusty bottle of whiskey and the two glasses, one full, as if awaiting a guest who would never arrive, gave him a painful glimpse into Harold's state of mind. 

"Ah, Finch," he murmured, aching for his friend. 

His gaze went to the envelope propped by the keyboard, ice forming in his veins as the flashlight beam traced the single line below his name, printed in Harold's familiar, precise hand. 

> _It has always been your choice._

He reached forward and lifted the envelope, flicking the metal tab at one end and tipping it toward the table. A waterfall of items cascaded onto the keyboard: IDs bearing Reese's photo, passports, a thick bundle of money, bank books, tidy post-it notes with what looked like login and password information, a separate smaller envelope labeled 'Bear'. 

John dropped into the chair, stunned. 

__Finch was cutting him loose._ _

__With a shaky hand, Reese reached for the passport on the top of the pile. It slid from his numb fingers and as he grabbed for it, he bumped the mouse._ _

__All four monitors lit up in a burst of color._ _

__On the central screen--an explosion, the one John had narrowly escaped hours earlier. Four views of the white truck tearing apart and bursting into flames, his sedan going up seconds later. Two of the feeds suddenly dissolved into dizzying black and white lines of static, then all four cycled again, looping the disaster continuously._ _

__He forced his eyes away, to the monitor on the right, shaking his head in dazed wonder. The screen was filled with images of him, all from within the last year. Most were obviously captures from surveillance video: a shot of John sitting across from his friend Han, a smirk on his face--probably in the midst of being slaughtered at Xianggi; in the park playing with Bear; a face in the crowd on the streets of Manhattan._ _

__There were others that Finch must have taken: a black and white image of John stretched out on the battered couch in the Library, asleep, the edge of a bandage showing beneath a rolled up shirtsleeve; an almost profile shot, John half in shadow, half in light, gazing out of one of the windows._ _

__To his left, another video feed, also running in a loop--the ferry bombing. It was grainy and unsteady, probably shot by a bystander; a tourist who had no idea the world was about to shatter. It showed a crowded quay; bright, early morning sun that was abruptly challenged by the flash of the explosion before the image jolted sideways to capture tumbled bodies and deadly falling debris. When the video restarted, Reese leaned forward, searching for some sign of Finch's presence, but the only recognizable image he caught as the camera panned was a glimpse of a tall man, dark blond hair lifted in the breeze, obliterated in the next moment by a flare of white light._ _

__The man's image held center court on the fourth monitor. A professional headshot John had seen before, accompanied by online newspaper articles published in the wake of the disaster, and an obituary for Nathan Ingram. Next to that, a single picture of Grace Hendricks, red hair glowing in the sunlight as she painted in the park._ _

__How long had Harold sat here, alone, staring at those screens?_ _

__How much could one man take, before he said, 'enough'?_ _

__Reese winced as he remembered his earlier, scathing thoughts about his partner. He had a done several stints as a 'handler' during his time with the CIA. He had quickly learned he preferred to be on the front lines. Sitting on this side of the action enacted a toll on the nerves. Limited to watching and listening, knowing that you held a life in your hands, could age you quickly. Difficult enough, when you had no personal connection to the person you were guiding. How much harder was it, when it was someone you cared for?_ _

__John's gaze drifted around their workspace, his mind filled with memories: of tea offered and accepted with a wary quirk of an eyebrow; worried frowns and quick half smiles; a stiffly bowed head after a Number gone bad; a dead-pan response to a teasing taunt; the gentle flow of words in his ear on a cold stake-out; the barest whisper of a touch to his arm; the solid reassurance and warmth that accompanied the words, "Always, Mr. Reese."_ _

__Tiny glimpses into such a private man; cracks in the shell of the enigma that was Harold Finch._ _

__Finch had hired him to work the Numbers. To do what he couldn't physically do. That had been their arrangement. There had been no need to become friends, or partners. Nothing had required either to risk their lives for one another._ _

__Nothing except love._ _

__Harold had offered him the chance to walk away after their first case. He hadn't taken the option then, and he was damned if he was going to take it now._ _

__He was not going to make the same mistake he'd made with Jessica._ _

__Reese pushed himself to his feet and stuffed the pieces of the new life Harold had left for him back into the envelope, folding it and stuffing it into his coat pocket. He didn't want it, and he would make that clear when he returned it to Finch._ _

__He hit the speed dial for Harold's phone, not surprised that calls were still going directly to voicemail. He moved quickly past the upper gate, sliding it shut and locking it behind him. His mind raced in pace with his steps as he descended the stairs. If Harold had already disappeared it would be hell trying to find him. The man was meticulous in his planning and he had spent years laying false trails. But he had given John a promise. He had said he would never lie to him._ _

_"I have an early appointment in the morning."_

__Reese hoped that Harold hadn't chosen now to break that vow._ _

__

******************************************************************************* 

_He saw the rules of life clearly for the first time and they were simple:  
it was a game where Death was the only winner._

******************************************************************************* 

__The Libertas Cruises Island Ferry no longer boarded at the 34th Street terminal. The city had rebuilt the damaged quay, turning it into a memorial, complete with a plaque detailing the lives lost to a terrorist's bomb. A new railing marked the location where the metal stanchions linked by lengths of flat roping had funneled passengers into line for boarding. Engraved paving stones purchased by loved ones were scattered the length of the railing, denoting the location of the fallen._ _

__Nathan's stone was easy to spot, flecks of gold catching the morning light._ _

__Harold could hear the faint chatter and laughter of people a few hundred feet away across the water, queuing up to board at the new location. In his head, he heard the scuff of feet and rustle of clothing as the line inched forward, the screech of seagulls dipping and diving overhead._ _

__He had retraced his steps of that fateful morning, keeping rigid control of the memories, lest they slip his grasp. The faces of the waiting passengers from three years earlier blurred in his mind to shapes and colors. All except one: Nathan, pacing just outside the stanchions._ _

__He halted the memory by sheer will power, just at moment before Nathan had called his name. Head and shoulder above the crowd, dark overcoat over a power suit, he had exuded confidence and a sense of indestructibility. The wind had ruffled his hair, adding a hint of boyish charm to the sophisticated businessman._ _

__Behind him, sunlight caught the peaks of the gently ruffled water, the sky blue with a haze of clouds._ _

__And a white van. Pure and gleaming, offering no hint of the destructive force it contained._ _

__Harold forced himself to focus on Nathan's face, took a deep breath and let the memory roll forward, waiting for his greeting._ _

_"Harold..."_

__"Finch."_ _

__Past and present collided without warning._ _

__He spun awkwardly to his left to find Reese standing only a foot away._ _

_"I knew you would come, my friend."_

__Nathan's voice in his head made him turn back toward the railing. For a moment the image of his old partner smiling at him was all he saw._ _

__But then he lost control of the memory. It swept over him, racing forward, and for a timeless moment he was 'there' again, blinded by a flare of light, blown backward by the force of the explosion, scoured by loss._ _

*************************************************************** 

_I now know how your anger came from_  
 _skeletons that rattled in your heart_  
 _and you couldn't escape them._

*************************************************************** 

__Reese caught Harold's sleeve as he staggered, head tipping back as though he had taken a blow._ _

__"Easy," he murmured, sliding his other hand behind the older man's neck to support it._ _

__Finch rocked forward on his feet, eyes wide and blinking, chest heaving. John eased him backward a few steps to a stone bench and carefully settled him on the seat. He dropped into a crouch next to him, right hand still lingering on Harold's arm, the other coming to rest gently on his knee._ _

__Harold's dazed gaze shifted to him, the slight twitch of the head and wide-eyed stare so reminiscent of his feathered namesake that Reese almost laughed. The confusion that furrowed Finch's brow schooled his reaction to silence. Harold reached toward him, his fingertips coming to rest lightly on Reese's cheek._ _

__"John?"_ _

__Reese nodded slowly. Finch blinked and pulled his hand back, his puzzled expression deepening._ _

__"What are you...?"_ _

__The rest of the question went unasked, but John answered it anyway._ _

__"Helping a friend settle some ghosts."_ _

__Harold blinked rapidly, raising his head and glancing around, emotions flowing across his face and in his eyes too quickly to identify. Finally he looked down at Reese, his expression wary, and John knew full awareness had returned._ _

__"I should have put it all together sooner," Reese rasped, an awkward apology for so many things. He prized his ability to note the details, to see patterns, but he had missed so much._ _

__John glanced over his shoulder toward the spot Finch had been fixated upon when he'd arrived. "This is where you lost him. Ingram."_ _

__When he looked back at Finch, he saw only pain._ _

__"This is where I lost everything," Harold replied softly._ _

__

***************************************************************************** 

_The problem with surviving was that you ended up with the ghosts  
of everyone you’d ever left behind riding on your shoulders._

***************************************************************************** 

__Harold pushed himself to his feet. Sliding his hands into the pockets of his coat he took a few steps away, then paused. Twisting toward Reese, he stood, waiting, until younger man rose, accepting his silent invitation._ _

__He limped over to the spot where Nathan had last stood. Reverently, he coasted his hands over the railing's tubular top bar, staring out at the water. He was aware of Reese taking a position to his right, turned slightly toward him. The space between them no more than inches, yet it felt like miles._ _

__Or perhaps it was a gulf of years. Of secrets too long kept. The sunlight sparkling on the water beckoned for truth._ _

__He twisted a fraction toward John. "I may have unintentionally misled you, Mr. Reese. When I first hired you, I told you I had a list of people that needed help. The natural inference would be that this endeavor was my idea."_ _

__He shook his head. "The Irrelevant Numbers were Nathan's crusade, not mine. From the moment he learned that The Machine was generating a second list...he wouldn't let them go, without trying to help."_ _

__"He sounds like he was a good man," Reese offered quietly._ _

__Harold looked away. "He was reckless. Fearless. Always the white knight ready to ride to the rescue. The risks he took...he terrified me." Harold twisted toward Reese again, offered a sad, sideways smile. "But yes, he was a good man. In many ways, he was much like you."_ _

__He watched a myriad of expressions chase across John's face, ending with denial. There was so much light in the man, but he would always see himself shrouded by darkness._ _

__"Finch--"_ _

__Harold held up one hand, staving off John's protest._ _

__"We argued over the Irrelevant list constantly. I'd programmed The Machine to delete it. I knew the government wouldn't care about those people. They wanted the big targets. Nathan believed each of those other lives was just as relevant...that they were important to someone. He didn't understand why I couldn't see that. How I could ignore the danger they were in. I told him people died every day. That I'd designed The Machine to save 'everyone', not 'someone'._ _

"The truth is, I was afraid. Of what I building. Of who we were giving it to. It had to be a black box. Untouchable. The potential for abusing the information, for abusing _The Machine_ was too great. 

__"But Nathan wanted a back door...access to the Irrelevant List. He was a good engineer. He knew that any exploit was a total exploit. I warned him that the government already had people trying to break into the system. They weren't happy that they wouldn't be able to direct The Machine; they wanted an open system. A weapon._ _

__"Nathan only cared about the people he thought he could save. He didn't give any thought to what would happen if the government learned he still had access. He had never seen a black car pull up in the driveway, with agents ready to hustle you away. He thought he was safe--that he was too visible, too protected by his status and notoriety to be in any danger._ _

___“'The consequences of every act are included in the act itself,'”_ Harold murmured. "I knew he would probably never forgive me. I hoped...but I refused to alter the programming. _ _

__"The night I shut everything down in preparation to ship the servers, he used his access to create a back door...a 'contingency' function."_ _

__He glanced at Reese, saw him tense slightly. John's familiarity with that term carried less than positive associations._ _

__"He opened the door a crack, just enough to get The Machine to send him a number. The Irrelevant list still deleted itself at midnight each day. He couldn't alter that._ _

__"It wasn't until months later that I discovered what he had done. We'd...grown apart. Nathan was busy rebuilding IFT. I was still the silent partner, still helping where I was needed, but I had..."_ _

__Harold looked down, gripped the railing tighter._ _

__"I was going to ask Grace to marry me. I thought...for her sake at least, that it was time to come out of hiding. I certainly had money to pay the best attorneys to deal with the fallout from some of my...youthful indiscretions. I hoped that if Nathan knew that I had moved on, that perhaps he could, too. That we could patch up our differences._ _

__"While he was getting us drinks to celebrate, his phone buzzed. I shouldn't have looked. I'm not sure why I did." He glanced at Reese and shrugged. "Old habits."_ _

__John nodded. Harold knew he understood. Habits formed under fire, particularly those that aided in self-preservation, were the ones that stuck with you, became instinctive, if not particularly honorable._ _

__"It was a System text message. A nine digit null number. I didn't let on that I'd seen it. The next day, I tried calling him. He didn't answer. I...I tracked his phone. Followed him to an old abandoned building."_ _

__Comprehension flared in John's eyes. "The Library."_ _

__"One of fifteen he'd bought in my name. Because I had bemoaned the 'decline of Western Civilization' when the city announced their closures._ _

__"He had been trying to work the Numbers on his own. He had saved five people, lost seven. I was so angry...so terrified. He had jeopardized everything and he wasn't going to stop. So I stopped him. I removed his access completely. Shut down the contingency._ _

__"For nearly two weeks after that he wouldn't return my calls. He wasn't going to the office. I was desperate. I thought his activities might have been noticed. I tapped into every source of information I could access covertly. What I found..."_ _

__Harold swallowed hard, feeling his stomach clench in revulsion, just as it had three years earlier._ _

__"People who had a connection to The Machine were dead, or had disappeared. The engineers, the technicians who had been hired to install it. Like the Egyptian Pharaohs who killed everyone who had been involved with building their tombs, the Powers That Be were eliminating loose ends. Of the seven people who had unofficially been a part of the creation of The Machine, Nathan was the only one that was outside of the protected loop. Vulnerable._ _

__"I went back to the Library, the only place I hadn't yet searched. Nathan was there. Angry and bitter. He asked me again to give him access to the Irrelevant List. I couldn't. I told him about the deaths I had discovered...tried to get him to understand how dangerous things had become. I pleaded with him to let me help him...to keep him safe. But he had already made a move I couldn't counter. He had contacted a reporter. He was going to expose The Machine to the world. He was convinced it was the right thing to do; that it was time to tell the truth. He wanted...he told me I should be there."_ _

__John's gaze was focused on Harold's hands where they gripped the railing. "You came."_ _

__Harold shrugged helplessly. "How could I not?"_ _

__He turned and gazed toward the spot where he had stood that morning. For a moment, the memory washed over him. He could hear the excited chatter of the passengers, taste the salt in the air..._ _

__John's hand closed around his arm, steadying him, keeping him in the present._ _

__"Nathan died because I was afraid. He protected me...kept my secrets. He only asked for one thing. And I wouldn't give it to him."_ _

__

__********************************************************************************************_ _

_I think sometimes when we find love we pretend it away,_  
 _or ignore it, or tell ourselves we’re imagining it._  
 _Because it is the most painful kind of hope there is._

__********************************************************************************************_ _

__John's gaze shifted between the spot where Harold had stood when he had first arrived, to the paving stone that bore Ingram's name, gauging the distance, horrified at what the outcome might have been if Finch had taken a few more steps forward._ _

__The idea of a world without Harold in it was unimaginable._ _

__He tightened his grip on Harold's arm. "You didn't set the bomb, Finch."_ _

__"No, but my refusal led Nathan here. You have no idea how many times I've wondered what would have happened if I had given him access to the List. If I had just--"_ _

__"He would have died anyway," Reese countered. "You were right. Ingram was a loose end they couldn't manage. It was too great a risk to the Program to leave him alive. If it hadn't happened here, it would have happened somewhere else."_ _

__And Finch would have probably died right along with him._ _

__Harold glanced up at him, eyes soft and sad. "So many people died that day, John. So many were hurt..."_ _

__"Including you." Finch started to shake his head, but John squeezed his arm, frustration making his voice harsh. "Don't deny your own losses, Harold. You didn't walk away unscathed."_ _

__Finch's expression hardened, eyes flashing angrily. "I don't need you to tell me what I've lost, Mr. Reese. I live with it every day."_ _

__Harold moved to pull away, but Reese stepped in front of front of him, grabbing Harold's other arm just above the elbow, trapping him in place._ _

__"I know you do," John said softly, easing his grip a little. "I'm sorry."_ _

__Finch looked up; startled, anger gone as quickly as it had come. He stilled, eyes searching John's face, the pain in their depths silently answering questions Reese hadn't been brave enough to ask._ _

__Slowly, Harold reached up and laid his hand on John's chest, over his heart. "I...I haven't been... _kind_...the last few weeks. You owe me no apologies."_ _

__Ah, but he did. "I frightened you yesterday."_ _

__Harold's gaze dropped. "Yes."_ _

__"I was reckless."_ _

__A little huff of breath. "Yes."_ _

__"Like Nathan."_ _

__Harold's hand dropped away, he closed his eyes and shook his head. But still he answered, "Yes."_ _

__Reese's throat tightened and he bowed his head, closing his eyes against anguish and hope. 'You loved him," he murmured._ _

__Harold dragged in a shuddering breath, released it as a whispered exhale. "Yes."_ _

__There was something broken and despairing in that reply. Something that awoke an answer and commiserating heartache within Reese._ _

__"You never told him."_ _

__Harold took another deep breath, squared his shoulders, lifted his chin. He met John's gaze with a sad, tired shake of his head. Reese let his hands drop as Harold took a step backward. Finch turned to lay his hand on the railing, the tips of his fingers trailing the metal in a gentle caress._ _

__"Nathan was..." His hand stilled and he twisted to look at John once more. "Do you know what a touchstone is, Mr. Reese?"_ _

__John blinked at the odd segue and answered automatically. "A standard...a point of reference."_ _

__Finch nodded. "A known quality; a person, a place, event, or a thing, by which all others are judged or quantified. Something that offers...stability...grounding. The etymology actually stems from a much older usage." He shifted his balance, winced, and then gestured toward the bench where they'd sat earlier. "Perhaps--?"_ _

__Sensing the man's weariness and need to get off his feet, Reese immediately agreed and followed Harold back to the bench. Finch perched like a tired bird, fussing a bit with his coat. John took a seat to his right. He wanted to wrap his arms around the older man, but he settled for sitting shoulder to shoulder, offering silent support and comfort, gratified when Harold leaned slightly into him._ _

__"The term originated in ancient Greece," Harold said softly. "They didn't have our current level of technology, obviously, to look within a given thing and determine it's true nature or value. In those days, a touchstone was a piece of dark stone--jasper or slate, commonly--used for assaying precious metals. Drawing a line on the fine grain of the stone with a piece of gold, for example, would leave a visible trace. The color of the mark would denote the quality, which could not be judged by the naked eye, fool's gold glittering just as brightly as the real thing. The more vibrant the color of the mark, the purer the sample."_ _

__Harold sighed. "Nathan was my point of reference. He grounded me. And in my eyes, despite his faults, he shone like pure gold."_ _

__Finch's shoulders twisted a fraction and he glanced at John before his gaze drifted toward the railing and the water. There was a softness to his features and his voice when he spoke again._ _

__"I assume since you knew about this," he waved a hand toward the memorial plaque, "that Detective Fusco's digging into my past revealed my attendance at MIT."_ _

__Reese nodded. He still had the folder of information Lionel had assembled before John had called him off the hunt. It was tucked safely away and Reese had taken to adding notes to it; tidbits and breadcrumbs that he had hoped would someday lead him to the truth._ _

__"I met Nathan there. He was larger than life. Tall. Athletic. Charming. The proverbial golden boy. I was...the country bumpkin in comparison. Skinny. Shaggy-haired, with glasses that...well, they were awful. Nathan was the life of the party. Everyone wanted to be in his company. Men, as well as women. He loved being in the spotlight. He commanded a room simply by entering it. I was--"_ _

__"Trying to stay off the radar," John finished for him. "As Harold Wren."_ _

__"Yes. Nathan was highly intelligent, but he wasn't what one would call a good student. He far preferred social interaction to academic pursuits. We were, for all intents and purposes, quite unlikely to have anything in common, much less become friends._ _

__"But under all the boisterous facade, Nathan was an old soul. He understood silence...and secrets. For as much as he often played to the gallery, he kept his own counsel, made his own choices._ _

__"As you can imagine, I was wary of his attention at first. I thought he was playing me, perhaps to get help with his grades. It wouldn't have been the first time I'd been befriended with that goal in mind. But that wasn't it at all. He stumbled into my room late one night, drunk as could be, and proceeded to tell me that he wanted to change the world. He wanted to do important things. Make life better for people. And he wanted me to help him do it."_ _

__Finch paused, tipped his head back a bit, gaze going distant as he stared up at the clouds._ _

__"I've never been the type of person who connected to people easily. It's...too difficult to let my guard down. Nathan understood me. As much of an extrovert as he was, he accepted there were lines I wouldn't cross, things I couldn't share. But he challenged me. Pushed me beyond my comfort zone. And when I needed to withdraw, to be private, he shielded me. 'Harold Wren' became more than just a name on paper. He taught me it was safe to spread my wings. He was a friend. The rock I could lean upon; a touchstone for my actions. A partner. He...he was my connection to the world."_ _

__Reese went numb at his words; an echo of his own..._ _

_When you find that one person who connects you to the world, you become someone different, someone better. When that person is taken from you, what do you become then?_

Jessica had been _his_ connection, his touchstone. He had been a different person with her; better, gentler. He had made the choice to leave her behind, drawn to battle in service of his country. He had loved her, but he hadn't asked to wait for him, thinking she deserved better. And when she had needed him, he hadn't been there. Her loss had devastated him. 

__Finch had been his salvation. He had offered a job, a purpose, and slowly, trust and a friendship. Little by little, Harold had pulled him out of the darkness. Reese had been conditioned to be a man of violence, of death and destruction, but time and again he had chosen a less deadly method to conduct their business when the situation allowed it, bowing to Harold's moral compass, more than his training. He shot for kneecaps instead of center mass; agreed to Finch's more complex plans to foil a perp when a slit throat would have offered a simpler solution. At first he'd done it grudgingly, shaking his head at the waste of time and effort just to appease his employer. Gradually he'd realized that he was no longer adding black marks to his soul, he was starting to balance the scales. He had begun to, not second-guess himself, but to consider Harold's reaction before he took an action. Their goals had become common ones._ _

__Finch had changed as well. Although the sight of blood and guns would never sit comfortably with him, he gradually acceded to their necessary presence in their world. Wary at first of John's choice of Fusco and Carter as assets, he had slowly begun to reach out to them directly, instead of using Reese as a go-between. He kept his end of the com open well after any other handler would have turned it off, checking John's welfare or listening in on a Number's thankful farewell. He had stepped out from behind his monitors, at first at Reese's insistence--and a bit of guilt tripping--showing an astounding inventiveness and calm capability under fire._ _

__A connection had been forged between them; neither asking it of one another, but offering it just the same._ _

__"I loved Nathan. But I never told him," Harold said quietly. "I knew. That was...enough."_ _

__How could Ingram not have known? John wondered. How could you be the center of someone else's world and not recognize it? It struck him then, that he had been just as blind. If he hadn't found that envelope, hadn't seen the images on the monitors, hadn't let himself look for the little clues, he would never have seen past Harold's smokescreen either._ _

__For all Finch's projected self-assurance, there was something in the man that wouldn't let him ask for what he wanted when it came to matters of the heart. Protecting those he loved over-rode his own needs and desires, so he settled for less. It was a lonely way to live._ _

__"I lost him anyway. The Machine and the Irrelevant Numbers drove us apart. When I lost that connection, I never thought I'd find that sense of myself again, never find another touchstone."_ _

__Oh, how John could relate. Still, Harold had gotten a second chance at happiness. "But you found Grace."_ _

__Harold shook his head. "Grace was...pure, uncomplicated joy. A dream of a life that I thought...that I convinced myself I could have._ _

__"Nathan knew better. He tried to warn me, the night before I proposed to her. He reminded me that my secrets were dangerous...asked if she would understand."_ _

__"She would have," Reese said firmly._ _

__"I asked her to marry me, and I hadn't even told her my real name. Or explained what I was involved in. I was less than honest with her."_ _

__"She loved you, Harold. She still does." John said, recalling his visit to Grace's townhouse. "The way she talked about you... She would have accepted any truth you offered."_ _

__"Perhaps." Harold stared out at the harbor. "I did love her. A part of me always will. I would have tried to make her happy. But after...Nathan... I knew I couldn't put her at further risk."_ _

__

__********************************************************************************************_ _

_I learned how to stop crying._  
 _I learned how to hide inside of myself._  
 _I learned how to be somebody else._  
 _I learned how to be cold and numb._

__********************************************************************************************_ _

__"They took everyone they pulled out of the water that day to a triage center in an old gym. I had injuries to my neck and lower back. Nathan was on a gurney only a few feet away. I watched as they called time of death and pulled the sheet up over his head. There were two men standing nearby. Men from the government. One of them took a phone call. Said 'it' was done. They were going to keep looking for anyone Nathan might have talked to."_ _

__"They knew--"_ _

__"About the reporter." Harold nodded stiffly. "I've always assumed so. I had called out for Nathan when I woke up. I knew I had to get out of there before they made the connection. I got to my feet, grabbed a crutch...and then Grace walked in. She was frantic. Calling for me._ _

__"I couldn't imagine why she was there. Grace thought I was a free-lance software designer. I had mentioned Nathan in passing...as someone I knew because of a project I had done. I had told her I was meeting him that morning, but not where. It was only later that I discovered that someone who had survived had recognized Nathan before the bomb went off. As the head of IFT, his was one of the first names mentioned in the early news reports._ _

__"The men were walking among the cots. Searching. I knew I couldn't go to her...chance that just by knowing me, her life would be in danger. I couldn't bear another loss on top of Nathan's. So I chose to let Grace believe I was dead, one of the un-recovered fallen, swept out to sea."_ _

__He had been desperate. He had stolen a jacket lying on a bench to cover any bloodstains and made his escape under the cover of darkness._ _

__"The Library was the only place I could think of to go that they might not know about. Nathan had left a laptop. I logged in and reactivated the contingency function for the Irrelevant List. Nathan's number was on it."_ _

__He closed his eyes against same horror he had felt when Nathan's picture showed up on the monitor._ _

__Despite the pain he'd been in, the instinct for self-preservation had driven him to act. He had scoured his electronic footprint, wiping out every trace of his connection to IFT, to Grace, to Nathan. He had spent feverish hours locating any cameras that might have caught even a glimpse of his hobbling journey from the triage point to the Library and destroying the footage._ _

__He had uploaded system-searing viruses to cover his own acts of sabotage._ _

__If he had continued, he could have burned the world. He'd had that in him._ _

__But there had still been one living soul he cared for, his last breathing connection to Nathan._ _

__Will Ingram, his son._ _

__Attending Nathan's funeral would have been impossible even if he hadn't needed medical care. Anyone in attendance would be thoroughly scrutinized by men in black, their connections to IFT's dead founder traced to the nth degree. His injuries would have raised questions that demanded answers, not only from Will, but also from those hunting._ _

__The paranoia Nathan had accused him of had stood him in good stead. He had crafted the story of a car accident, laying a trail of police reports, newspaper articles; every detail he could think of. There was money in accounts no one would link to any of his bird-like aliases and he had pulled from those sources, making arrangements for a private clinic in Connecticut, paying an outrageous but necessary price for care and silence. Will had come to see him there. Harold had held him as he'd grieved, too guilty, too ashamed, to shed tears of his own._ _

__"I covered my tracks. Went off the grid completely. After the surgeries and rehabilitation, I returned to the Library. During my convalescence I had arranged for the building to become 'lost' in the shuffle of bureaucratic red tape."_ _

__He remembered vividly the first time he had stepped back inside; the books scattered and moldering on the first floor, the dusty stacks, the cracked glass board in the workroom, the round table, the small bulletin board which had still held pictures of the people Nathan had tried to help. Over the years he had made additions, but few real changes. It was, in many respects, the 'shrine' Reese had called it._ _

__"I thought about how the loss of one person affected me...how it must affect others...one of Nathan's final lessons, I suppose. I understood, finally, why he had been so determined to save each of those lives."_ _

__"So you took on the job, yourself."_ _

__"Yes."_ _

__

__********************************************************************************************_ _

_And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul,_  
 _you stop in shock at the words you utter—_  
 _they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the_  
 _small cramped dark inside you so long._

__********************************************************************************************_ _

__Finch fell silent, his gaze drifting. The pain that had filled his eyes earlier had dissipated to no more than a lingering wisp of shadow. He looked tired, but oddly enough, he also looked younger, his face smoother, the set of his shoulders looser._ _

__Reese tried to process the flood of revelations, but his efforts only generated more questions. He had come here intending to confront the man, prepared to battle for every inch of headway. He hadn't expected Finch to simply open the door and invite him inside._ _

__So many things about Finch made sense in the wake of the story of The Machine and Ingram's loss. He had risked exposure to the very government that hunted him in order to build them a device that could protect billions of lives. But he had also made a choice to try to protect the man he loved--a choice he admitted would cost him dearly. Harold would risk himself, but not others that he cared for. It was the reason he'd walked away from Grace; why he had left the envelope containing all the pieces of a new life for John._ _

__It was difficult to reconcile Finch's assertion that saving the Irrelevant Numbers had been Ingram's idea, and that Harold had simply taken up the crusade after his friend's death as a means to honor Ingram's memory, and perhaps to appease his own guilt._ _

__Reese had seen the honest anguish on Harold's face when he looked at the boards of lost chances. Finch's tendency to see many of their Numbers as victims, even after they'd been proven to be perpetrators--like Marvin Jacobs--revealed a deep empathy for those 'irrelevant' lives. That level of caring was an innate part of the man, not something he'd adopted._ _

__Reese understood the desire for redemption. He had thought himself beyond it before Finch had plucked him off the streets. There was a strange symmetry in Harold taking up Ingram's crusade, just as John had taken up Finch's._ _

__But wasn't there a point where living for yourself became just as important? Harold had shown him it was possible. That life and joy existed outside of penance for past sins. That it was possible to be happy if you allowed yourself to be._ _

__"Is it enough?" he blurted out._ _

__Harold blinked at him. "It's important work."_ _

__"But is it enough?"_ _

__"What are you asking me, Mr. Reese?"_ _

__A question for a question was classic Finch and did nothing to resolve John's struggle to find the right words. He hadn't expected to find Ingram's ghost so entrenched. He had believed that Grace was the loss that had torn Finch's heart. He had seen the devastation in his friend's eyes when he spoke of her. The longing. He had seen the photo of Harold in Grace's apartment; smiling, obviously in love with the woman who laid a tender kiss to his temple. To learn there was an even greater lost love in the man's past made John wonder how Finch was still standing._ _

__Telling Finch he loved him was poor timing coming on the heels of Harold's declaration of unrequited love for his old partner, even if it was the truth. John finally settled on the one issue he desperately needed an answer to._ _

__"Why did you come here, Finch?"_ _

__"I came to say goodbye."_ _

__Reese felt the ground fall out from under him._ _

__Harold glanced at him quizzically, laying a hand on his knee. "John?"_ _

__Reese shoved to his feet, moved a few steps away. "When are you leaving?" he asked gruffly._ _

__"Leaving?"_ _

__The confusion in his voice made John turn and look at him. Harold looked completely bewildered._ _

__"People typically leave after they say goodbye, Finch."_ _

__His tone was sharper than he'd intended, eliciting a frown from Harold._ _

__"I don't know how you got the impression I was going anywhere, Mr. Reese. You asked me why I was here, and I told you. I came to say goodbye to a friend."_ _

__A tiny seed of hope blossomed. John was reluctant to nurture it. "Most people do that over a tombstone."_ _

__The slightly affronted expression on Harold's face eased. "I've never been to Nathan's grave. This is the last place he was alive; where his journey ended. This is the place that's important to me. The events that happened here...the losses...they are a touchstone of a sort; one of demarcation. The first year after Nathan died, the City hadn't yet finished rebuilding. Last year..."_ _

__Last year at this time, he'd been in Root's clutches._ _

__"I came here to let him go, John," Finch said quietly. "Not to leave behind the task I've accepted."_ _

__Reese felt a surge of relief, but the envelope in his pocket weighed heavily against it._ _

__"So you're staying. You're going to continue to try to save the Numbers."_ _

__"Assuming The Machine continues to send them, yes. As you're aware, it has been a bit...erratic as of late. We have only a few more days before Decima's virus hits. Whether the system will even be functional after that event, is something I can't predict with any certainty."_ _

__"If it never contacts you again, what will you do?" Reese pressed._ _

__Harold's expression grew guarded. "Individual lives matter. You proved that to me. There will always be people who need help. I'll try to find a way, for as long as I can."_ _

__His tone and words raised the hair on John's neck. Finch had been extremely reticent to share any theories on what would happen when the clock ran out. The Machine had been acting just as oddly as its creator over the past month. Reese doubted it was going to go out with a whimper. The consequences were more likely to be earth shattering._ _

__The fact that he'd said 'I' not 'we' suggested Harold meant to carry on without him._ _

__"When you hired me..." Finch flinched, but John didn't let it stop him. "You said you needed help. That you couldn't do it on your own."_ _

__Harold hunched in on himself for a moment, but then he met John's gaze with a hint of defiance. "As I told you then, I am well aware of my...shortcomings, Mr. Reese. Granted, I've done more...field work in the last two years than I ever envisioned, but it has only shown me that I am poorly suited for your end of things."_ _

__John pulled the envelope out of his pocket and unfolded it, smoothing the wrinkles flat._ _

__"Then why are you trying to get rid of me?"_ _

__

******************************************************************************************* 

_I thought at the time that I couldn't be horrified anymore, or wounded._  
 _I suppose that's a common conceit, that you've already been so damaged_  
 _that damage itself, in its totality, makes you safe._

__******************************************************************************************_ _

Harold felt the blood drain from his face as he stared at the envelope. He had never imagined Reese would interpret what it held as rejection. When he had set it out, he had meant it as a true offering: the choice to stay or leave had always been John's. Harold could not, _would not_ choose for him. Certainly not with so much of the future in turmoil. There was only the faintest possibility that something he had put in motion years ago would still bear fruit, and even that small hope might ultimately destroy them. All other roads led to literal dead ends. 

__"While it is impossible to predict what will happen when the virus finally goes live, there are certain probabilities that rise to the top of the list," he said dully. "Decima could be trying to destroy The Machine. If that is the case, then I would assume they have their own variant ready to put in its place."_ _

__Reese was quick on the uptake, as usual. "An open system. The weapon the government originally wanted."_ _

Harold nodded. "It's also possible the virus is designed to give them access to _my_ Machine." 

"How? _You_ don't even have access beyond the Number The Machine sends you." 

__"If they can determine its physical location," Harold responded reluctantly, "with the correct protocols, it's...conceivable they could find a way."_ _

__John looked unconvinced. "But you gave it the ability to protect itself."_ _

__"Which is the largest and least predictable variable in either scenario. The Machine's...behavior since the virus was uploaded could mean it has already been damaged. Or it could mean that it has been initiating self-protection protocols in order to preserve its primary functions. When the clock ticks down, The Machine could simply go silent. It could self-destruct. Or it could shut down and re-instantiate."_ _

Reese hefted the envelope. "None of that explains _this._ " 

"If Decima has its own system ready, they'll look to get access to the NSA feeds, and surveillance gathered by other countries. Once they do, the world is laid bare. If they get access to my Machine and manage to alter it, the result is the same. The Machine _stores_ information, John. It doesn't just access it. Our association with The Machine is written in its archival memory. Our own government has resorted to murder to keep its secrets. Decima will do no less. There will be no place to hide. No sanctuary. Our names will be at the top of their 'hit' list. 

__"I made a choice a long time ago. A decision I can never un-make. It put me on this path. Anyone who walks it with me..."_ _

__"I'm not Grace, Harold," Reese said quietly. "You don't need to shove me out of your life to protect me."_ _

__Harold sat silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on his hands in his lap. "Perhaps," he whispered, "I was protecting myself."_ _

__John settled next to him at an angle, one knee nudging against Harold's, encouraging him to continue._ _

__"After Nathan died...I thought that the worst that could ever happen had already occurred; that nothing would ever hurt as much as losing he and Grace. I was dead as far as the world was concerned and I felt dead inside. I...embraced that. I thought I would be able to do what needed to be done with the Numbers without having to feel that pain again. That I could...exist in the shadows until it all finally ended._ _

"I wasn't...prepared for you. You push just like Nathan did. I tried to keep my distance, but you persisted in closing the gap. I kept tossing up barriers and you found a way through or around them. You moved past employee to partner faster than I could blink. And then you were shot...bleeding your life out in the back seat of my car and I had to face the fact that you'd become... _necessary_ to me. And not just for the work we were doing. 

__"And just like Nathan, you act like you're indestructible. Worse, like you're replaceable. Perhaps that's partly my fault. I told you at the beginning we'd probably both end up dead._ _

__"Yesterday...the explosion. It brought it all back. Everything I'd lost. Everything I could lose again."_ _

__

******************************************************************************************** 

_There are times when the world is rearranging itself,  
and at times like that, the right words can change the world._

__********************************************************************************************_ _

Reese nudged him again with his knee. " _Could_ lose. I didn't die, Finch. I'm right here." 

__"And if The Machine contacts us with another Number, you'll head blithely into danger again. Or I'll watch you die at the hands of Decima's agents. I don't know if--" Harold shook his head. "I told you I would never lie to you. What I said yesterday...that perhaps it was time to find someone else. That was the truth, John."_ _

__"I know." Reese ghosted his fingers down Harold's cheek, warmed by the startled surprise and longing in the pale blue eyes. The words came easily, now. From his heart. "I also know that there's no one else I would entrust you to."_ _

__Finch's eyes widened further._ _

__"John--"_ _

__Reese touched his fingertips to Harold's lips gently._ _

__He laid the envelope in Finch's hands, closing his fingers over it. "My choice. I don't want a different life, Harold. I want to share this one with you."_ _

__Finch shook his head, but his grip on the envelope tightened and he made no move to offer it back to Reese. "Reckless," he murmured._ _

John smiled, slow and seductive. "You _like_ reckless men." 

__Harold's eyes brightened, then dimmed with worry._ _

"We'll find a way," Reese assured him. "Knowing I have you to come home to...to live for...I won't risk that." He stroked his fingers down Harold's cheek again; let them linger against the faint stubble for a moment before dropping his hand. "I've told you what I want. What do _you_ want?" 

__

__*********************************************************************************************************************_ _

_What if you were wrong? What if you decided not to go backwards, but forward?_  
 _What if doing what you have never done before was the answer to everything that didn't make sense?_  
 _What if you found the courage to do what you really wanted to do and doing it changed your whole life?_

__*********************************************************************************************************************_ _

__Harold closed his eyes, and bowed his head slightly._ _

__He was not a man prone to taking risks that he hadn't calculated to near-infinity, or who typically allowed his heart to guide his decisions. Yet their endeavor was risk in itself, and his heart had already chosen. If he sent John away, he would be sending part of himself with him._ _

__He had come here to let go of one loss so he could bear the burden of another, never dreaming another alternative might be offered. The envelope was heavy in his hands; a hope for John's safety, but not a guarantee._ _

__Life didn't come with those; life was made up of moments and choices._ _

John Reese was a man who saw the world as it was, not an innocent like Grace or blindly confident like Nathan. Despite his sometimes reckless acts, he too was a man who calculated the odds before committing himself to an action. He knew what their work entailed; the risks, the danger. In spite of all the obstacles Harold had thrown in his path, Reese _knew_ him. _Wanted_ him. 

__John had chosen._ _

__Which left Harold free to choose as well._ _

__"I want to wake up every morning with you by my side," he finally said, his voice a bare whisper. "I want us to live every minute we have left, and die with no regrets. I want us to leave this world together so neither has to bear another loss."_ _

__Harold slowly raised his head, meeting John's gaze. "I want you to understand that there will always be some things I can't share; question's I won't answer. That there will be days like yesterday when my love for you makes me foolish and afraid; times I will hurt you without meaning to. I want you to keep teasing me and pushing me for more, because I need that as much as I need my privacy."_ _

He reached out to lay a hand on John's upper arm, fingers tightening possessively in the cloth of his coat, letting every ounce of passion he'd kept hidden show in his eyes. "I _want_ to make love to you, to touch you, to hold you, to wipe out all the pain you carry in your soul." 

__Harold's grip loosened, fingers trailing up John's arm, across his shoulder, feathering at the side of his neck, thumb gently stroking his jaw line. "I want to see you smile, knowing I caused it; to hear you laugh, because you're so happy you can't contain it. I want everything you're willing to give. I want you to keep trying to connect me to the world."_ _

__"Touchstone," Reese murmured, cupping Harold's cheek, his eyes shining._ _

__Harold leaned into his touch. It was like coming home. He reached up and stroked the tips of his fingers through the silver threading the dark strands at John's temple._ _

__"Platinum, I think." He smiled a sweet, tremulous smile. "Far more precious than gold."_ _

__

__********************************************************************************************_ _

_Sail Forth--Steer for the deep waters only._  
 _Reckless O soul, exploring._  
 _I with thee and thou with me._  
 _For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared go._  
 _And we will risk the ship, ourselves, and all._

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__Attributions:  
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__“...time was not passing...it was turning in a circle...” --Gabriel Garcia Marquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude_ _

__"When someone tells you to be careful, it is not because you're careless, but because you are too important to them."-- Unknown Author_ _

__"We have placed our hearts into the hands of those closest to us, with the trust of its safekeeping. Those careless with it's handling can cause the deepest pain."-- T Jay Taylor_ _

__“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.” -- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby_ _

__“There are things you can't walk away from. Not if you want to live with yourself afterward.” -- Jim Butcher, Death Masks_ _

__“Alone. It's one of those small words that means entirely too much. Like fear. Or trust.” -- Jim Butcher, Fool Moon_ _

__“Do you know how there are moments when the world moves so slowly you can feel your bones shifting, your mind tumbling? When you think that no matter what happens to you for the rest of your life, you will remember every last detail of that one minute forever?” --Jodi Picoult, Nineteen Minutes_ _

__“Listening is the most dangerous thing of all, listening means knowing, finding out about something and knowing what’s going on, our ears don’t have lids that can instinctively close against the words uttered, they can’t hide from what they sense they’re about to hear, it’s always too late.” -- Javier Marias, A Heart So White_ _

__“I get up and pace the room, as if I can leave my guilt behind me. But it tracks me as I walk, an ugly shadow made by myself.” -- Rosamund Lupton, Sister_ _

__“Life is made of moments. and choices. Not all of them matter, or have any lasting impact. Skipping class in favor of a taste of freedom, picking a prom dress because of the way it transforms you into a princess in the mirror. Even the nights you steal away from an open window, tiptoe silent to the end of the driveway, where darkened headlights and the pull of something unknown beckon. These are all small choices, really. Insignificant as soon as they’re made._ _

__Innocent. But then._ _

__Then there’s a different kind of moment. One when things are irrevocably changed by a choice we make. A moment we will play endlessly in our minds on lonely nights and empty days. One we’ll search repeatedly for some indication that what we chose was right, some small sign that tells us the truth isn’t nearly as awful as it feels. Or as awful as anyone would think if they knew._ _

__So we explain it to ourselves, justify it enough to sleep. And then we bury it deep, so deep we can almost pretend it never happened. But as much as we wish it were different, the truth is, our worlds are sometimes balanced on choices we make and the secrets we keep.” -- Jessi Kirby, Golden_ _

__“There are things we keep hidden from one another. Things we hide from ourselves. Things that are kept hidden from us. And things no one knows. You always learn the damnedest things at the worst possible times.” --Jim Butcher, Changes_ _

__“He saw the rules of life clearly for the first time and they were simple: it was a game where Death was the only winner.” -- Sharon Sant, Runners_ _

__“I now know how your anger came from skeletons that rattled in your heart and you couldn't escape them.” -- Susie Clevenger, Dirt Road Dreams_ _

__“The problem with surviving was that you ended up with the ghosts of everyone you’d ever left behind riding on your shoulders.” --Paolo Bacigalupi The Drowned Cities_ _

__“The consequences of every act are included in the act itself.” --George Orwell, 1984_ _

__“I think sometimes when we find love we pretend it away, or ignore it, or tell ourselves we’re imagining it. Because it is the most painful kind of hope there is.” -- Rea Carson, The Bitter Kingdom_ _

__“I learned how to stop crying. I learned how to hide inside of myself. I learned how to be somebody else. I learned how to be cold and numb.” -- Sherman Alexie, Flight_ _

__“And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.” -- Sylivia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath_ _

__“I thought at the time that I couldn't be horrified anymore, or wounded. I suppose that's a common conceit, that you've already been so damaged that damage itself, in its totality, makes you safe.” -- Lionel Shriver, We Need to Talk About Kevin_ _

__“There are times when the world is rearranging itself, and at times like that, the right words can change the world.” -- Orson Scott Card, Ender's Game_ _

__“What if you were wrong? What if you decided not to go backwards, but forward? What if doing what you have never done before was the answer to everything that didn't make sense? What if the answer wasn't to be found in words, but in action? What if you found the courage to do what you really wanted to do and doing it changed your whole life?” - Shannon L. Alder_ _

__“Sail Forth- Steer for the deep waters only. Reckless O soul, exploring. I with thee and thou with me. For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared go. And we will risk the ship, ourselves, and all.”-- Walt Whitman_ _

__Quotes and references from various POI episodes._ _

**Author's Note:**

> I took liberties with the time-frame for the end of Season 2 a bit to make this work, as the anniversary of the Libertas Ferry Bombing where Nathan Ingram was killed happened Sept. 26, 2010. Pretend the summer hiatus fell after "In Extremis" (2-20), and that "Zero Day" (2-21) and "God Mode" (2-22) took place after this story and you'll be fine.:) 
> 
> Spoilers through Season 2. Not beta'd, so any mistakes are mine. Some language issues that might be inappropriate for the younger set, but not many. M/M relationships inferred/implied, but nothing explicit, so this is rated Mature.


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